“Maternity,” she said, “has been our undoing. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. . The door was then locked, and he was left alone. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. .
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